CHAPTER 1: THE PEACOCK PARADE

The heat at Nellis Air Force Base was a physical weight, pressing down on the tarmac with enough force to distort the air itself. It was the kind of dry, aggressive heat that dried out your contact lenses and made the asphalt smell like melting tar. Inside the main hangar, the air conditioning was blasting, but for Captain Jessica “Wraith” Navaro, the atmosphere was suffocating for entirely different reasons.

She hated crowds. specifically, she hated this crowd.

The National Military Aviation Symposium was the Oscars of the sky. It was where the golden boys and girls of the Air Force and Navy came to slap each other on the back, compare flight hours, and measure their egos against the wingspan of their aircraft. It was a sea of flight suits—olive drab and desert tan—peppered with the sharp, tailored lines of Class A dress uniforms.

Jessica stood at the back of the registration line, an anomaly. She wore a pair of faded Levi’s that had seen the inside of more C-130s than washing machines, a plain black t-shirt that hung loosely over her frame, and scuffed combat boots. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy knot, strands escaping to frame a face that was devoid of makeup and marked by the kind of exhaustion sleep couldn’t fix.

She looked like a mechanic who had just clocked out, or perhaps a spouse who had gotten lost on the way to the commissary. She looked like absolutely nobody important.

And that was the point. That was always the point.

“Check six,” a voice boomed from behind her. “We got a straggler.”

Jessica didn’t turn. Her eyes were fixed on the registration desk fifty feet ahead, calculating the time it would take to get through this choke point. She checked her internal clock: 0900 hours. The keynote speech started at 1000. She had an hour to find General Vance, deliver the package, and vanish before the anxiety clawing at her throat took over.

“Excuse me, miss?” The voice was closer now.

“You might be in the wrong place.”

She felt a presence loom over her right shoulder. She adjusted her sunglasses, sliding them down her nose just enough to peer over the rim.

Standing there was a caricature of a fighter pilot. He was tall, blonde, with teeth so white they looked like they could deflect radar. His flight suit was tailored—actually tailored—to accentuate his shoulders. The name patch on his chest read MAJOR THOMAS “HITCH” HALLOWAY, and below it, the patch of the 422nd Test and Evaluation Squadron.

The Raptor drivers. The kings of the food chain.

“The public exhibition is out Gate 4,” Halloway said, flashing a grin at the two pilots flanking him. They chuckled, the sound sharp and exclusionary.

“This line is for attendees. Active duty flight status.”

Jessica pushed her sunglasses back up. “I know where I am.”

Her voice was raspy. She hadn’t spoken much in the last three weeks. Not since the funeral. Not since the investigation board cleared her of wrongdoing but couldn’t clear her conscience.

Halloway blinked, surprised she hadn’t scurried away. He leaned in, invading her personal space. He smelled of expensive aftershave and peppermint gum.

“Look, I’m just trying to save you some embarrassment. Security at the desk is tight. They don’t let just anyone wander in to ogle the planes.”

“I’m not here to ogle,” Jessica said, stepping forward as the line moved.

“Then what? Looking for a husband?” One of Halloway’s wingmen snickered.

Jessica stopped. The movement was sudden enough that Halloway almost bumped into her. She turned slowly, her entire body pivoting as a single, solid unit. It was a movement pattern drilled into her from years of wearing body armor; you didn’t twist your spine, you turned your hips.

She looked Halloway up and down. She saw the pristine patches. The un-scuffed boots. The hands that were manicured.

“You fly the F-22,” she stated.

Halloway straightened, his chest puffing out slightly.

“Guilty as charged. Best air superiority fighter on the planet.”

“High altitude,” Jessica murmured, almost to herself.

“Pressurized cockpit. Climate controlled. You engage targets from thirty miles away. You kill things you never actually see.”

Halloway’s smile faltered.

“It’s called over-the-horizon warfare, sweetheart. It’s how we keep the skies clear.”

“Must be nice,” she said.

“The air conditioning.”

She turned her back on him before he could respond.

“Hey!” Halloway stepped around her, blocking her path. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by irritation. “You got a problem with the Air Force, lady?”

“No. Just the noise,” Jessica said softly.

“What noise?”

“You.”

The line went silent. Heads turned. A few Navy pilots in khakis watched with amusement, waiting to see the Air Force guy get dressed down by a civilian.

Halloway’s face reddened. “You need to leave. You’re holding up the line, and you clearly don’t belong here.” He gestured to the registration desk. “Go ahead. Try to check in. I want to see the look on your face when they bounce you out.”

Jessica looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. She saw the insecurity behind the bluster. He needed this status. He needed the suit and the badge and the deference. Without it, he was just a man in a jumpsuit.

“After you,” she said, stepping aside mockingly.

“No, no,” Halloway insisted, sweeping his arm forward. “Ladies first. Let’s see those credentials.”

Jessica let out a breath, a slow exhale that carried the weight of the ghosts she brought with her. She walked to the desk.

The hangar was vast, filled with the echoes of voices and the hum of machinery, but as she approached the plexiglass barrier of the registration station, the world narrowed down to a single objective. Get inside. Find Vance. Leave.

She didn’t care about Halloway. She didn’t care about the symposium. She was a Nightstalker. She was used to operating in the dark. Being in the spotlight just made her feel like a target.

CHAPTER 2: CLEARANCE LEVEL SIGMA

The registration desk was manned by two civilian contractors, a man and a woman, wearing matching blue polo shirts with the symposium logo embroidered on the chest. They looked tired, bored, and armed with the petty authority that comes with holding a clipboard.

The woman, whose nametag read SARAH, was tapping furiously on a tablet. She didn’t look up as Jessica approached.

“Name?” Sarah asked, her voice flat.

“Navaro.”

Sarah typed. Tapped. Scrolled. “First name?”

“Jessica.”

More scrolling. The silence stretched. Behind Jessica, she could feel Halloway’s smugness radiating like heat from an engine block.

“I’m not finding a Jessica Navaro,” Sarah said, finally looking up. Her eyes did the same inventory Halloway’s had done: jeans, t-shirt, messy hair. The assessment was instantaneous and unfavorable. “Are you with the catering staff? Vendor setup is around back.”

“I’m not a vendor,” Jessica said quietly.

“Well, you aren’t on the attendee list.” Sarah turned the tablet around, showing the empty search field. “This event is restricted. Invitation only. DoD ID required.”

“She’s lost, Sarah,” Halloway called out from behind. “Just point her to the exit so the rest of us can get to the briefing.”

The male contractor next to Sarah chuckled. “Ma’am, we have a lot of pilots waiting. If you don’t have credentials, you need to step aside.”

Jessica placed her hands on the desk. They were scarred. There was a thin, jagged white line running from her thumb to her wrist—a souvenir from a shattered canopy in Syria. There were burn marks on her knuckles that had healed but never faded.

“I don’t have a CAC card,” Jessica said. “And I’m not on your list.”

“Then you can’t come in,” Sarah said, her patience snapping. “Security!” She raised a hand, signaling a uniformed MP standing by the door.

The MP started walking over, his hand resting casually on his belt. The crowd was watching now. It was a spectacle. The crazy civilian woman getting tossed out.

Jessica reached into the front pocket of her jeans.

“Don’t!” Halloway shouted, reacting instinctively, perhaps thinking she was reaching for a weapon.

Jessica ignored him. She withdrew a small, rectangular device. It was matte black, made of a heavy, high-density polymer. It looked like a car key, but heavier. Dense. There were no buttons. No lights. Just a smooth, featureless slab of technology.

She placed it on the white tablecloth. It made a heavy thud that seemed disproportionate to its size.

“Scan this,” Jessica commanded.

Sarah looked at the device, then at Jessica. “What is that?”

“It’s my invitation.”

“We don’t scan random junk, Ma’am. We use the official DoD system.”

“The system you’re using is Level 3 unclassified,” Jessica said, her voice dropping an octave, becoming cold, precise, and dangerous. “That device contains a handshake protocol for Level 1 compartmentalized access. If you want to know who I am, place it on the NFC reader of your tablet.”

Sarah hesitated. The MP had arrived, standing just behind Jessica. “Everything okay here, Sarah?”

“She’s refusing to leave,” Halloway volunteered. “And she’s holding up the line with some kind of toy.”

Jessica didn’t look at the MP. She locked eyes with Sarah. “Scan. The. Device.”

There was something in Jessica’s eyes—a hollowness, a dark intensity that made Sarah’s throat go dry. It was the look of someone who had seen things that did not belong in a civilized world. Against her better judgment, driven by a fear she couldn’t articulate, Sarah reached out.

She picked up the black fob. It was cold.

She touched it to the back of her tablet.

For three seconds, nothing happened. Halloway let out a snort of derision. “Unbelievable. Officer, remove her.”

The MP reached for Jessica’s arm. “Ma’am, let’s go.”

Then the tablet screen went black.

“My screen died!” Sarah cried out, panic rising. “It just—”

A singular, low-frequency tone emitted from the tablet. A thrum that vibrated the table.

The screen flared back to life. But the friendly blue and white interface of the symposium was gone. The entire screen was now a deep, blood red.

In the center, a spinning logo appeared: a winged skull with a scythe. The emblem of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. The Nightstalkers.

Text began to scroll rapidly in white, block letters, visible to Sarah, the male contractor, and everyone watching the large mirrored monitor behind the desk.

IDENTITY CONFIRMED OPERATOR: NAVARO, JESSICA J. CALLSIGN: WRAITH UNIT: 160TH SOAR (A) RANK: CAPTAIN (O-3) CLEARANCE: SIGMA / YANKEE WHITE / NOFORN STATUS: ACTIVE FLIGHT DEPLOYMENTS: CLASSIFIED [67]

ALERT: THIS OFFICER IS CLEARED FOR ALL AREAS. ALL BRIEFINGS. ALL MATERIALS. FULL PROFESSIONAL COURTESY IS MANDATED BY JSOC COMMAND.

The silence in the hangar was absolute.

The male contractor’s jaw hung open. Sarah stared at the screen, her hands trembling.

Halloway, who had been leaning over Jessica’s shoulder to mock her, stopped mid-breath. He read the screen. He read “160th.” He read “67 Deployments.”

He looked at Jessica’s back. He looked at the jeans. The t-shirt. The messy hair. And suddenly, he realized why she looked so tired.

Nightstalkers didn’t sleep. They hunted.

Jessica reached out and plucked the black device from Sarah’s paralyzed hand. She slipped it back into her pocket.

“Am I clear to proceed?” Jessica asked softly.

Sarah swallowed hard. She looked at the woman in front of her—the woman she had dismissed as a vendor, a spouse, a nobody. She saw the scars on the hands now. She saw the tension in the neck.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Sarah whispered.

“Captain. I… I didn’t know.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Jessica said.

She turned to face Halloway. The arrogant fighter pilot was pale. He had flown patrols. He had dropped bombs from 30,000 feet. But he knew, like every pilot knew, that the Nightstalkers were a different breed. They flew helicopters at 160 miles per hour, ten feet off the ground, in total darkness, into the teeth of the enemy.

“Major,” Jessica nodded to him.

Halloway stammered. “Captain… I… I didn’t realize you were…”

“Tier One?” Jessica finished for him. She adjusted her sunglasses, though the hangar was dim. “Don’t worry about it, Major. We prefer the dark.”

She walked past the checkpoint. The MP snapped to attention and saluted as she passed.

Jessica didn’t salute back. She just kept walking, moving deeper into the hangar, a ghost finally entering the machine. But she didn’t feel triumphant. The scan had worked, the doors were open, but the heavy feeling in her chest hadn’t moved.

She wasn’t here to impress them. She was here to finish a mission that had started in a burning valley in Afghanistan three weeks ago. And looking at the sea of pristine uniforms, she realized the hardest part wasn’t getting in.

It was holding back the rage she felt toward everyone who didn’t know the price of the peace they were celebrating.

CHAPTER 3: THE QUIET PROFESSIONAL

The interior of the symposium hall was a different world from the sun-scorched tarmac. It was cool, dimly lit, and smelled of expensive catering—roast beef, aged wine, and sanitized ambition.

Jessica moved through the crowd like a tear in the fabric of the room. Around her, pilots held court. She heard snippets of conversations that made her teeth ache. Tales of dogfights in training exercises. Complaints about per diem rates. Arguments over which hotel had the better pool.

To them, aviation was a career. A glorious, high-octane sport.

To Jessica, it was the sound of a master caution alarm screaming while you tried to hold pressure on a sucking chest wound.

She found a quiet corner near a display of a mock-up drone and leaned against the wall. Her hand went to her pocket again, touching the small, folded letter she had carried for three weeks.

“If you’re reading this, Wraith, I messed up. Or the engine did. Either way, give ‘em hell.”

It was the last thing Lieutenant Marcus “Spook” Gable had written. He was her co-pilot. He was twenty-four. He had a wife in Kentucky and a baby he’d never met. He had burned to death in the backseat of her MH-6 Little Bird because the extraction zone was too hot, and they had stayed ten seconds too long to get the last operator out.

Jessica had survived. The investigation board called it “miraculous piloting.” She called it a failure.

“You look like someone who knows the difference between a brochure and a battlefield.”

Jessica stiffened. She turned to see an older man standing next to her. He held a glass of sparkling water, ignoring the open bar. He wore a flight suit, but unlike Halloway’s tailored costume, this one was worn. The fabric was soft from countless wash cycles, the Velcro patches fraying at the edges.

The silver eagles on his shoulders identified him as a Colonel. The name tape read CHEN.

“Colonel,” Jessica acknowledged, keeping her voice neutral.

“I saw what happened at the desk,” Chen said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The contractors are still hyperventilating. They think they just let a CIA assassin into the building.”

“Close enough,” Jessica murmured.

“160th,” Chen stated. It wasn’t a question. “I recognized the callsign on the screen. Wraith. I’ve read the reports from Kandahar. And the blurred-out files from the Horn of Africa.”

Jessica turned fully toward him. “I didn’t think anyone outside the Regiment read those.”

“Some of us do,” Chen said. He took a sip of water. “I flew Cobras in the first Gulf War. I know the look. You’re scanning the room for exits. You’re listening to the HVAC system to make sure it’s not a rotor failure. You’re here, but you’re not here.”

Jessica looked at the crowd. Halloway was in the center of the room, loudly reenacting a maneuver with his hands for a group of enamored civilians.

“I’m just delivering a message,” Jessica said. “Then I’m gone.”

“To General Vance?”

Jessica paused. “How did you know?”

“Because he signed off on the mission that cost you your co-pilot,” Chen said softly. The jovial tone was gone. “And because if I were you, I’d want to look him in the eye, too.”

The air between them grew heavy. Jessica felt the familiar tightening in her chest.

“He’s not here,” Chen said. “Vance got pulled to the Pentagon this morning. Emergency briefing.”

The air went out of Jessica’s lungs. The adrenaline that had carried her through the gate, through the confrontation with Halloway, suddenly evaporated, leaving her exhausted. She had come all this way for nothing.

“Great,” she whispered. “Just great.”

“But,” Chen continued, “The people he commands are here. The industry reps who build the birds are here. And the pilots who think they’re the best in the world…” He gestured to Halloway. “…they’re definitely here.”

“What’s your point, Colonel?”

“My point is, Captain Navaro, sometimes the best message isn’t a letter delivered to a general. Sometimes, it’s showing the world exactly what they’re ignoring.”

A sudden commotion from the PA system interrupted them. A flustered organizer tapped a microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a slight change to the schedule. Our demonstration pilot for the next-gen tactical helicopter showcase has… fallen ill. We are looking for a qualified replacement to assist with the static display.”

Chen looked at Jessica. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

“I’m the air boss for the demo,” Chen said. “And I have a fully fueled, stripped-down MH-60 Black Hawk sitting on the tarmac with no one to dance with.”

Jessica shook her head immediately.

“No. I don’t do airshows. I don’t do tricks for applause.”

“Don’t do it for them,” Chen said, stepping closer. He lowered his voice so only she could hear.

“Do it for the kid in the backseat. Show these fighter jocks what a helicopter can actually do when the pilot isn’t worried about safety regulations. Show them what survival looks like.”

Jessica looked at the letter in her pocket. She looked at Halloway, who was now laughing at something else, completely oblivious to the violence of the real world.

She thought of the fire. She thought of Spook.

“I don’t have my gear,” she said.

Chen’s smile widened. “I have a spare helmet in the ready room. And I think we can find a flight suit that fits.”

CHAPTER 4: GRAVITY AND GRACE

The flight line was blindingly bright. The heat waves were back, shimmering off the concrete like a mirage.

Jessica walked alongside Colonel Chen, the noise of the symposium fading behind them. Ahead, the aircraft waited.

It wasn’t just any helicopter. It was a modified MH-60M. Matte black paint. Refueling probe extending like a lance from the nose. It looked predatory, a shark swimming in the ocean of air. It was a machine built for violence, currently being treated like a museum piece.

“She’s light,” Chen said as they approached. “Internal tanks only. No payload. The limiter software has been disabled for the demo.”

“Disabled?” Jessica asked, running a hand along the fuselage. The metal was hot. It felt alive.

“We wanted to show the contractors the structural limits,” Chen shrugged.

“The previous pilot was going to do some gentle banking turns. Maybe a quick stop.”

“Gentle,” Jessica scoffed.

They reached the prep shack. Chen unlocked a locker and tossed her a bundle of olive-green Nomex.

“Change out. I’ll prep the ground crew.”

Five minutes later, Jessica stepped out.

The jeans and t-shirt were gone. She wore the flight suit, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She carried a helmet under her arm—an older HGU-56/P, battered and scratched, but functional.

She didn’t look like a “girlfriend” anymore. She didn’t look like a civilian. She looked like a weapon that had been unsheathed.

She walked toward the aircraft. The ground crew, a group of young mechanics, looked at her with confusion.

“Where’s Major Lewis?” the crew chief asked.

“Sick,” Jessica said, climbing up to the cockpit door. She didn’t ask for a ladder. She swung herself up with a fluid, practiced motion, her boots finding the footholds by muscle memory.

“Ma’am, are you qualified on this airframe?” the chief asked nervously, chasing after her.

“This is a prototype configuration. The sensitivity is cranked to 11.”

Jessica settled into the seat. It was hard, uncomfortable, and perfect. The smell of JP-8 fuel, hydraulic fluid, and sweat hit her—the perfume of her life. She plugged her helmet into the comms system.

“Chief,” she said, her voice crackling over the intercom, calm and icy.

“I have three thousand hours in this airframe. Half of them were under night vision goggles, and the other half were while being shot at. Pull the chocks.”

The crew chief hesitated, looking at Colonel Chen, who was standing by the nose of the aircraft giving a thumbs up.

“You heard the lady,” Chen yelled over the rising whine of the APU.

“Clear the pad!”

Jessica began the startup sequence. Her hands moved in a blur. Overhead, the massive rotor blades began to turn. Whump. Whump. Whump.

The sound was a heartbeat. It vibrated through her spine, chasing away the anxiety, chasing away the anger. In here, the world made sense. In here, physics was the only law that mattered.

She looked out the side window. The symposium attendees were pouring out onto the observation deck. She saw the flash of dress uniforms and sunglasses. She saw Halloway standing near the front, arms crossed, looking skeptical.

Let’s see what you got, sweetheart, she imagined him saying.

She keyed the mic.

“Tower, this is Wraith. Requesting immediate takeoff. Unrestricted maneuvering approved.”

“Wraith, Tower. You are cleared for… wait, did you say unrestricted?”

“Affirmative.”

“Copy. The box is yours, Wraith. Good luck.”

Jessica gripped the collective with her left hand and the cyclic with her right. She closed her eyes for a split second.

This is for you, Spook.

She didn’t lift off gently. She didn’t hover to check her gauges.

Jessica Navaro yanked the collective.

The seven-ton machine leaped into the air as if gravity had simply ceased to exist. She didn’t go up; she went forward, nose down, skimming the tarmac at 140 knots before she even cleared the runway threshold.

The crowd flinched. Halloway took a step back.

The Ghost was flying. And school was in session.