Part 1

The hangar hummed, a cathedral of steel and sweat dedicated to the grim business of war. My world had shrunk to this: the smell of jet fuel, the shriek of power tools, and the methodical click of locking a Sidewinder missile onto the wing of an F-35.

I was Specialist Azie Vincent. Six months at Kingsley Air Force Base. An unremarkable service record.

A ghost.

My hands, steady and sure, moved with a precision that felt hollow. Three years ago, these same hands had gripped the flight stick of an F-22 Raptor, leading the finest squadron in the Air Force. Now, they just secured weapons for other pilots. Better pilots? No. Luckier ones.

The pilot of this F-35, Commander Julian Blackwood, barely glanced at me. He was all cool efficiency, his eyes on his flight path, his mind already in the sky. To him, I was just another set of blue coveralls, a faceless tech beneath his wing. He had no reason to look twice.

No one did. And that’s exactly how I’d survived.

That’s how I’d spent three years hunting them.

I moved through the orchestrated chaos with practiced invisibility, my baseball cap pulled low. “Vincent! We need those birds armed and ready in 30,” Master Sergeant Reeves barked, not even looking up from his clipboard. “Stop daydreaming.”

I didn’t correct him. I didn’t tell him I’d finished three aircraft in the time it took most techs to finish one. I just nodded. Silence was my shield. Submission was my camouflage. It was always better to be underestimated. Better to be forgotten.

I watched Blackwood from beneath lowered lashes as he strode toward his jet. He carried his helmet under one arm, his reputation preceding him like a shockwave. Exceptional pilot. Rigid protocol. Trusted no one. He was a perfect instrument, a sharp blade being aimed by unseen hands. His gaze swept right over me, as if I were just another piece of equipment.

It was perfect. The less he saw, the safer I was.

“Think they’ll ever declassify the Raptor 6 incident?”

The voice, young and careless, sliced through the hangar noise. My hand froze on the missile mount. A dangerous question. A memory that still bled.

“Doubt it,” his companion replied, leaning against a tool cabinet. “Total disaster. That female pilot, what was her name? Took a classified aircraft into restricted airspace, got her entire squadron killed. Pentagon buried it so deep we’ll never know what really happened.”

My knuckles turned white under my work gloves. I tightened a coupling with more force than necessary. Wrong. The facts were wrong. The dismissive tone was salt in a wound that never healed. I carried the weight of those six deaths every second of every day. The mission to find out why was the only thing keeping me alive.

“Voss,” I said. My voice was quiet, rusty from disuse.

Both pilots turned, surprised the ground crew grunt had spoken.

“What was that, specialist?” the first one asked, his tone laced with the casual arrogance of an officer addressing an enlisted tech.

“The pilot’s name,” I said, securing the final connection. My eyes stayed on my work. “It was Major Azriel Voss.”

The second pilot snorted. “Like it matters. She’s dead anyway. Along with everyone else who flew that day.”

A spark ignited, a tiny, defiant ember I hadn’t been able to extinguish. I allowed myself one small act of rebellion. I stood up and met his gaze directly. “Someone should remember their names.”

He shifted, uncomfortable under my steady stare. They moved away, muttering about maintenance crew who didn’t know their place. I went back to work, berating myself. Careless. Stupid. Three years of meticulous anonymity, almost compromised for a moment of pride.

Colonel Nathaniel Mercer, the base commander, strode through the hangar, his silver-gray hair immaculate. He cut a path toward Blackwood.

“Commander,” Mercer’s voice carried, sharp and clear, reaching me under the wing. “The Pentagon transferred additional classified files this morning. Your mission parameters have been updated.”

Blackwood tensed. “Any significant changes, sir?”

“Intelligence suggests increased activity in the test zone. You’ll be evaluating the new countermeasures package under more realistic conditions.”

My hands never faltered, but my blood ran cold. Test zone. Countermeasures. The exact same language. The same sterile phrases used just before my squadron was deployed on its final, fatal mission.

“I understand we have a narrow weather window,” Blackwood said.

“Correct. Wheels up at 0600 tomorrow. The package must be evaluated under these specific atmospheric conditions.”

Echoes. Every word was an echo from three years ago.

As they moved away, Mercer handed Blackwood a sealed envelope. “Updated coordinates. Eyes only.”

I secured the final missile. And then I saw it.

My practiced eyes caught it instantly. Modifications to the weapon system. Non-standard specs. I recognized the experimental tech. It was the same tech that had “disappeared” during my last mission. The same tech that had vanished along with my squadron.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Coincidence. Coincidence. Coincidence. But my gut screamed: Pattern.

With practiced, casual movements, I shielded my watch with my body. A tiny, hidden device photographed the serial numbers. I completed the final system check, my mind racing. Experimental tech. Test zone. Specific atmospheric conditions. Blackwood’s “eyes only” coordinates.

They weren’t just echoes. They were a blueprint.

“Vincent!” Blackwood’s voice snapped from the cockpit. “This targeting system feels off.”

My heart seized. He knows. He saw me. I grabbed the maintenance ladder, keeping my eyes appropriately lowered, my posture submissive. “What seems to be the issue, sir?”

“Response lag. Run a diagnostic.”

I leaned into the cockpit, the smell of avionics and recycled air filling my lungs. I kept my distance. Don’t get too close. Don’t let him see your eyes.

And then I saw it. On his targeting display. His planned flight path.

It cut directly across restricted airspace. The exact, forbidden corridor where Raptor Squadron had vanished three years ago.

This wasn’t a test mission. It was an execution. They were sending him into the very same trap.

“Everything looks standard, sir,” I said, my voice betraying nothing. But as my fingers moved over the console, running the “diagnostic,” I made a subtle adjustment. A tiny, fractional change to his targeting parameters. It was almost nothing. But it might, might, give him a split-second edge if he encountered the same hell I had. It might keep him alive.

He studied my adjustments, his focus narrow and intense. “You’re experienced with these systems.” It wasn’t a question.

A test. A dangerous one. “I transferred from Edwards, sir. Worked on the testing program.” A partial truth. The easiest lie to sell.

He seemed to accept it, but his gaze lingered a moment too long. I retreated down the ladder, my skin prickling. I had taken a risk. But I couldn’t just send him to his death.

As I moved to secure my tools, my modified radio earpiece—disguised as standard comms—hissed. It was intercepting an encrypted transmission on a frequency that should have been silent.

“Kingsley Base to all units. Scarlet Protocol now active.”

I froze. My toolbox clattered to the floor.

The same code words. The same calm, measured cadence. The exact transmission that had preceded my squadron’s ambush.

Not coincidence. Not a pattern.

Confirmation.

Blackwood, passing on his way to the briefing room, saw my reaction. “Something wrong, specialist?”

Our eyes met. For one agonizing second, I wanted to scream it. It’s a trap! They’re going to kill you! The mission is a lie!

But I couldn’t. Revealing myself now would end everything. Without proof, I was just a delusional tech. I’d be detained, and he would still fly to his death. My three-year hunt would be over. The men who murdered my team would win.

“No, sir,” I managed, my voice tight. “Just a static burst in the comms.”

He nodded, unconvinced, and walked away.

I watched him go, and the decision crystalized. I couldn’t let him die. I couldn’t let it happen again.

Tonight, I was going to access the command center’s communication system. I had to find the proof.

Even if it meant the ghost of Azriel Voss had to finally come back to life.

I spent the rest of the day in a haze of calculated routine. I completed my maintenance duties, my movements unassuming, my face a mask of bored efficiency. But beneath the mask, my mind was a whirlwind, building and discarding plans, calculating risks, preparing for war.

As evening fell, I signed out. I didn’t go to my quarters. That sparse, empty room held nothing for me anyway. No photos, no mementos. Nothing that tied Specialist Vincent to Major Voss.

Instead, I went to the personnel building. My modified ID badge, the product of months of painstaking work, got me past the first checkpoint. An empty office. A secure terminal. I inserted a device disguised as a simple data drive. My own specialized program bypassed the security protocols, granting me temporary, untraceable access.

I pulled Blackwood’s file. Distinguished service. Combat zones. Advanced certifications. And then, a mission from four years ago. An extraction op gone wrong. Casualties. The location was classified, but the timestamp… it aligned with a covert operation my squadron had supported from the air.

A connection? Or just another coincidence?

Voices in the hall. I terminated the search, removed the drive, and slipped out a secondary exit just as the door opened.

Darkness had settled. I changed into PT gear and headed to the gym. Routine is the best cover. The gym was nearly empty. I picked a treadmill with a clear view of the entrances and started to run.

My mind went back. Three years ago. The F-22, screaming through the sky. Then the weapon. An invisible hand that tore our systems apart. Communications, then navigation, then propulsion. We were falling like stones. I was the only one who partially evaded it, wrestling my dying bird into a controlled crash in hostile territory.

The official report: Killed in Action. All of us.

A local family found me, half-dead in the mountains. A year of recovery. A year of relearning how to be a person. By the time I was strong enough, the investigation was sealed. My contacts went silent. A trusted ally in intel sent one last, cryptic message: Someone powerful wants Raptor 6 buried. Stay dead.

So Major Azriel Voss remained dead. And Specialist Azie Vincent was born. I’d worked my way to Kingsley, the facility where the tech had originated. The place where I could find the truth.

The gym door opened.

Commander Blackwood.

He nodded at me, a brief acknowledgment, and moved to the weight station. I kept running, my peripheral vision locked on him. He moved with a precise, controlled power. A disciplined mind. The same kind of mind I’d been trained to have.

A pang of loss hit me, sharp and unexpected. I missed it. I missed the sky.

I finished my run and moved to the stretching area. He approached the water station nearby.

“Good pace,” he said. Casual, but it wasn’t. It was an observation. “You run like someone with tactical training.”

A test.

“Just trying to maintain standards, sir,” I kept my response modest.

“You maintained a 5.07-mile for 30 minutes. That’s well above standard for maintenance personnel.”

I allowed a small, dismissive smile. “Old habits. I was training for special operations before a knee injury changed my path.” Not entirely a lie. The crash had ended my flying career.

He studied me, his gaze analytical. “Sometimes the path changes for a reason, specialist.”

“Perhaps, sir.” I finished stretching. “Good luck on tomorrow’s mission.”

A mistake. A careless, critical mistake.

A slight furrow appeared between his brows. “I don’t recall announcing the mission schedule to maintenance crew.”

I recovered, forcing a smooth, easy tone. “Hangar schedule has all aircraft prep completed by 0500. Only one reason for that timeline, sir.”

He seemed to accept it. But his eyes held mine a moment too long. “Good night, specialist.”

“Good night, commander.”

I left the gym, my heart hammering. Careless. He was too observant. I had to get what I needed, and I had to do it now.

At 0130 hours, I moved through the darkened base. I was a shadow, avoiding patrol routes I’d memorized. The communication center. Key card access and biometric verification. My forged credentials handled the first. For the second, I needed an opportunity.

It came at 0145. The scheduled maintenance check. A technician emerged. I approached from his blind spot, my walk all authorized purpose. “System check required in the main hub,” I said, flashing my credentials. “Colonel Mercer’s orders.”

He frowned. “No notification came through.”

“Last-minute directive. The colonel’s concerned about transmission security for tomorrow’s op.” I held up a tablet with a convincing, forged work order. At this hour, no one looks too closely.

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Need to log you in.”

He escorted me past the biometric scanner. Into the heart of the beast.

The dimly lit comms center. Three personnel, their faces lit by console glows. “Specialist Vincent for system check,” my escort announced.

The duty officer, a lieutenant, barely glanced up. “Sector 4 is open.”

Perfect. Sector 4 had access to the archived transmission logs.

I set up my equipment, my movements suggesting a routine diagnostic. The specialized drive I connected was disguised, its true purpose to hunt for specific encryption patterns while bypassing all security.

For thirty minutes, I ran a fake diagnostic. For thirty minutes, my hidden program downloaded everything. Transmission logs. Flight patterns. And the complete, unredacted mission parameters for Blackwood’s flight.

“Find any issues?” the duty officer asked, walking over.

“Minor synchronization lag,” I replied, using just enough jargon to bore him. “Should be resolved now.”

He nodded, already losing interest. “Sign out when you’re done.”

I disconnected. I signed the log. I walked out, my pace unhurried.

Back in my quarters, I examined the data.

It wasn’t a pattern. It wasn’t a blueprint. It was a carbon copy.

Blackwood’s flight path, his altitude, his mission parameters—they precisely mirrored my fatal mission. The logs showed the same subtle interference patterns that had preceded our ambush. Even the weather was the same.

They were sending him into the exact same trap.

I had hours. Not enough time to unravel three years of conspiracy. But maybe, just maybe, enough time to stop a murder.

I needed the actual mission briefing files. The why. Those were in the secure command center. A facility with security that made the comms center look like a public library.

This was the point of no return. Going in there meant exposing myself. It meant the end of Specialist Vincent.

But letting him fly into that meat grinder? Letting my history become his future?

Unacceptable.

At 0300 hours, I moved.

Part 2

The base was shrouded in that deep, hollow quiet just before dawn. I moved between shadows, my senses screaming. The command center. Active patrols, multiple checkpoints. This was the end of the line.

I used a secondary entrance, one for environmental systems. My credentials got me in, but the internal checkpoint was next. I prepared a device to create a momentary power fluctuation—a reset, not an alarm.

I rounded the corner.

“Specialist Vincent.”

My blood turned to ice.

Commander Blackwood stood in the corridor, his arms crossed. He wasn’t in uniform. He was waiting for me. “Unusual place for maintenance personnel at this hour.”

My mind raced. “Commander. System diagnostics indicated environmental fluctuations in the server room. I was dispatched to investigate.”

“Interesting,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Especially since I just came from the duty desk. Where no such dispatch was logged.”

He knew. He’d been watching me.

“Perhaps a miscommunication,” I offered, my hand slowly moving toward the sidearm hidden under my jacket.

“I think we’re well past miscommunication, specialist.” He nodded toward a nearby briefing room. “After you.”

There was no escape. A physical confrontation would trigger alarms. Running would do the same. My only path was through him.

He closed the door and engaged the privacy lock. The click sounded like a death sentence.

“You’ve been accessing classified systems for at least the past week,” he said, no preamble. “Modified credentials. Unauthorized database queries. And now, attempted entry to the most secure facility on base. The question is why?”

I looked at him. Really looked at him. Was he an ally, or was he part of it? His record was clean, but records could be faked.

I made my choice.

“Your mission tomorrow,” I said, my voice flat. “It’s a trap.”

He blinked. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t that. “Explain.”

“The flight path. The altitude. The parameters. They’re identical to Operation Cerberus. Three years ago. A classified mission that ended with the loss of an entire F-22 squadron.”

His eyes narrowed. “That information is classified far above your clearance level, specialist.”

“Yes.”

“So either you’ve been engaged in extensive espionage, or…” He studied my face, really studied it, the pieces clicking into place. “Who are you?”

Before I could answer, the entire building was consumed by sound.

Alarms. Not security alarms. Basewide.

Colonel Mercer’s voice boomed over the PA. “All personnel to battle stations! Unidentified aircraft approaching from Vector 9!”

Blackwood’s head snapped toward the door, his attention split.

I seized the opening. “That’s exactly how it started last time,” I said, my voice urgent, commanding. “A scramble alert. A distraction. They redirect attention, then they hit the mission aircraft when it’s isolated. We need to get to the command center. Now.”

He hesitated for one crucial second, weighing the ghost story of a rogue tech against the immediate threat.

Training won. “This isn’t finished,” he warned, unlocking the door.

We moved fast. Corridors were flooding with personnel. The command center doors were open. In the chaos, we slipped in unchallenged.

The main screen showed the unidentified aircraft. They were approaching, just as Mercer said.

But I knew that pattern. Cold recognition washed over me.

“They’ll appear to retreat,” I said quietly to Blackwood. “Then they’ll circle back through this corridor here.” I pointed to a blind spot on the tactical display. “Our radar coverage is dead there.”

His expression hardened. He saw it, too. The unidentified aircraft were doing exactly what I’d predicted.

Colonel Mercer spotted us. “Commander! We’re accelerating your mission. We need that countermeasures package evaluated against these hostiles.”

“Sir,” Blackwood began, then hesitated, glancing at me.

This was it. No more hiding. Three years of silence, three years of hunting, weighed against the lives in this room.

No contest.

“Colonel,” I said, stepping forward. My voice wasn’t Specialist Vincent’s. It was clear, strong, and loud. “The approaching aircraft are using the same attack pattern that destroyed Raptor Squadron three years ago.”

Mercer’s gaze snapped to me, irritation warring with surprise. “Specialist, this is a secure command center. Return to your duty station. Immediately.”

“Sir, with respect, you need to hear this.” I stood to my full height, shedding the submissive posture I’d worn for three years. “The mission parameters for Commander Blackwood’s flight exactly match Operation Cerberus. Someone is recreating the conditions that led to the loss of six pilots.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Mercer demanded.

The doors hissed open. Major Diana Sutton, the intelligence officer, entered, flanked by security. “Colonel, we need to detain this woman immediately.”

“We have incoming hostiles,” I countered, my eyes locked on Mercer. “Deal with me later. Listen to me now.”

Mercer stared at my face. He looked past the cap, past the grease stains, past the identity I’d built. His eyes widened, recognition dawning like a physical blow.

“My god,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”

Sutton moved closer, her hand on her sidearm. “Colonel, this woman is impersonating a dead officer. This is a matter of national security.”

“The real security threat is approaching our airspace,” Blackwood interjected, stepping between me and Sutton. “And she just accurately predicted their attack pattern. Look!”

He pointed to the tactical display. The unidentified aircraft had vanished from primary radar. Exactly as I’d warned.

Mercer made his choice. “Major Sutton, your concerns are noted. But right now, we have a tactical situation.” He turned to me. “Specialist, or whoever you are. What else can you tell us?”

The moment stretched, thick with three years of lies.

“Sir,” I said, “I believe I should identify myself properly.”

I pulled off my baseball cap, letting it fall to the floor. I met the Colonel’s gaze.

“I’m Major Azriel Voss. Call sign, Raptor 6. And we’re about to face the same weapon that shot down my squadron.”

The command center fell utterly silent.

“Impossible,” Mercer breathed. “We recovered partial remains.”

“No, sir,” I said. “You recovered aircraft debris. Not a body.”

Sutton stepped forward again. “Colonel, she’s a security breach and must be contained.”

“Perhaps,” Blackwood cut in, his eyes on the tactical display, “we could postpone the identity verification until after we’re not being attacked.”

The main screen lit up. The hostiles were back, appearing exactly where I said they would.

“They’re setting up for an electronic warfare attack,” I said, moving to the display, my training taking over. “They’ll establish a jamming corridor, then deploy a directed energy weapon. It will disable our systems in sequence. Comms first. Then navigation. Then propulsion. We’ll be grounded in mid-air.”

The tactical officer yelled, “Sir! We’re detecting unusual electromagnetic activity in Sector 7! Comms with our perimeter sensors are degrading!”

Mercer looked at me. The disbelief was gone. “What’s your recommendation, Major?”

“Major Sutton!” Mercer’s voice was sharp. “Are you confirming the existence of this weapon?”

Sutton’s face was a mask. “I’m stating that discussion of such technologies requires clearance this individual lacks.”

“I’ve seen it,” I snapped, turning on her. “I’ve watched it kill my team. I’ve spent three years tracking who built it and who gave the order to use it against American pilots.”

The room was electric.

“Those are allegations of treason, Major,” Mercer said, his voice low.

“Yes, sir. They are.”

Sutton tried to shut it down, whispering to Mercer about “delusion” and “psychiatric evaluation.”

But the tactical display was proving my “delusion” true.

“Sir!” the comms officer shouted. “Alert fighters report EM interference affecting targeting systems! Request permission to deploy countermeasures!”

“Granted,” Mercer said, then turned to Sutton. “Major, your recommendation is noted.” He faced me. “Major Voss, you are temporarily assigned to advisory status. You have the floor.”

I took it. I pointed to the map. “The interference will escalate. They’ll triangulate to create an energy field. This isn’t an invasion. It’s a test. They’re evaluating the weapon against our defenses.”

“Testing?” Blackwood asked.

“It’s both,” I said. “The weapon is lethal. But its deployment against specific assets suggests a controlled evaluation. Just like my squadron. We were the first test.”

“Sir!” The tactical officer was pale. “Alert fighters report visual contact. Silhouettes match no known configuration.”

The implications hung in the air. Someone was using unknown, advanced technology to attack a US Air Force base.

“Major Sutton,” Mercer said, “does Intelligence have any knowledge of such testing programs?”

Sutton’s composure was flawless. “Colonel, I am not at liberty to discuss classified research.”

“That’s exactly what they said about Operation Cerberus,” I shot back. “Our mission was a lie. We were test subjects.”

“Sir! Alert fighters experiencing system failures! Comms degrading, navigation anomalous!”

“Order immediate withdrawal,” Mercer commanded.

It was happening again.

“Colonel,” I said, “Blackwood’s 0600 mission. It has to be canceled. He’s the real target.”

“Agreed,” Mercer said. “But that leaves this.”

“We need to document everything,” I urged. “Sensor data, logs, anything. They buried the evidence last time. We can’t let that happen again.”

Blackwood stepped forward. “Sir, requesting permission to lead a reconnaissance mission to visual range.”

“Too risky,” Mercer said.

“Not if we maintain the altitude separation Major Voss identified,” Blackwood countered. “A high-altitude pass, minimal electronics. It would reduce vulnerability while getting us visual confirmation.”

He was good. He was adapting. He was trusting me.

“He’s right,” I said to Mercer. “Minimal exposure for critical intel.”

Sutton objected, of course. “We can’t base tactical decisions on her claims!”

“Her claims have been 100% accurate so far, Major,” Mercer snapped. He turned to Blackwood. “Permission granted. High-altitude recon only. Abort at the first sign of interference.”

“Understood, sir.” Blackwood turned to me. “Any additional recommendations, Major?”

He used my rank. Publicly. A signal.

“Manual control of critical systems,” I advised. “The weapon hits automated functions first. And watch for visual distortions. A heat shimmer effect that doesn’t match the atmosphere.”

He nodded crisply and headed for the door. As he passed me, he spoke, his voice low. “We’ll continue our discussion when I return, Major.”

He left. The command center refocused. Mercer turned to me. “Major, we need to address your status. You’ve admitted to using false credentials.”

“Yes, sir. And I’ll face those consequences. After we stop the people who are actively testing weapons on our pilots.”

The door opened. A tall, silver-haired man in civilian clothing entered, flanked by security.

Dr. Elias Werner. The civilian contractor. The man I’d been watching for weeks.

“Colonel Mercer,” Werner said, his accent clipped. “I’m informed there is an unauthorized individual in the command center. This is highly irregular.”

“Dr. Werner,” Mercer said, “this is Major Voss, a tactical specialist with experience relevant to our situation.”

Werner’s eyes locked on me. A flicker of… something. Recognition?

“Major Voss,” he said, tasting the name. “Unusual to bring in specialists during an alert.”

“Unusual situations call for adaptive responses, Doctor,” I replied, watching him. If he was involved, he’d know the name Voss.

“Sir!” the comms officer interrupted. “Commander Blackwood is airborne. ETA to visual range, 7 minutes.”

All eyes went to the screen.

“Doctor,” Mercer said, “we’re seeing EM interference disabling systems in sequence. Comms, nav, propulsion. Any insight?”

Werner was smooth. “Sounds consistent with next-gen electronic warfare. Several nations are developing it.”

“Including our own?” I asked, point-blank.

His gaze sharpened. “Military research remains classified, Major.”

“Even when it’s being deployed against our own aircraft?” I pressed.

“An extraordinary claim,” he replied, giving nothing away.

“Kingsley Base, Talon 1,” Blackwood’s voice crackled. “Approaching visual range. Experiencing minor interference… Visual contact established. Confirming three aircraft. Unknown configuration… no apparent propulsion… There’s a… a shimmering, sir. Like heat distortion.”

“That’s them,” I whispered. “The same aircraft.”

Werner murmured, almost to himself. “Fascinating. Metamaterial cloaking, perhaps.”

“Prototypes that have killed American pilots,” I reminded him, my voice like steel.

“Kingsley Base!” Blackwood’s voice was tense. “The aircraft are altering formation… they’re orienting on my position.”

“Abort!” Mercer yelled. “Talon 1, abort reconnaissance! Return to base!”

“Acknowledged. Executing evasive—”

The transmission dissolved into static.

Blackwood’s aircraft marker on the display blinked red. LOST COMMUNICATIONS.

The same cold dread from three years ago clawed up my throat.

“Get him back,” I ordered the comms officer. “Alternate frequencies. Emergency channels.”

“No response, Major! His transponder is still active, but degrading.”

“Track his descent,” I said, my mind racing. “If the pattern holds, he’ll lose propulsion next. They’re capturing his aircraft.”

“They’re what?” Mercer said.

“My squadron was forced into a controlled descent. I was the only one who overrode it. They’re taking his F-35.”

The display updated. Blackwood’s plane was losing altitude. A controlled descent. Exactly as I’d said.

“Launch rescue aircraft,” Mercer ordered. “Full combat configuration.”

“Sir,” the tactical officer said, “they’ll be entering the same EM field!”

“Maintain the separation parameters Major Voss identified!” Mercer commanded. “Below 8,000 or above 20,000.”

“Colonel,” I said, “I need to join that rescue mission.”

“Absolutely not. You’re an unverified individual.”

“I am also the only pilot who has encountered this weapon and survived,” I countered. “I know its capabilities better than anyone.”

Sutton was right there. “Colonel, allowing her near an aircraft is a severe breach…”

“My pilot certification and biometrics are still on record,” I snapped. “A simple check confirms who I am.”

“Major Voss’s records are sealed!” Sutton shot back.

“Sealed, not destroyed!”

Mercer held up a hand. “This debate is academic. You are not cleared to pilot, Major. Period.”

The display showed Blackwood’s plane descending deep into the mountains. The unidentified drones were escorting it.

“Sir,” I changed tactics. “Request permission to accompany the rescue as a technical advisor. My knowledge could be crucial.”

Mercer hesitated.

“Colonel, if I may,” Dr. Werner said smoothly, stepping in. “Security concerns understood. But if this officer has direct experience with this technology, her input could be invaluable.”

I stared at him. Why was he helping me? What was his angle?

Sutton looked betrayed. “Dr. Werner, you are not in a position to make security determinations…”

“Of course not,” Werner agreed, all charm. “Merely offering a technical perspective.”

Mercer nodded. “Major, you’re cleared to accompany as technical advisor only. You will remain under escort. You will not approach any aircraft controls.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Colonel!” Sutton protested.

“So noted, Major,” Mercer said curtly.

As I moved to gear up, Werner spoke to me, his voice low, for my ears only. “You’ve caused quite a stir, Major. Returning from the dead is a remarkable achievement.”

“Not as remarkable as developing a weapon that disables advanced aircraft,” I replied, matching his tone. “That requires high-level authorization.”

His expression didn’t change. “Theoretical technologies often appear… The path of innovation is rarely linear.”

“Six pilots died,” I whispered. “That’s not innovation. That’s a massacre.”

He just looked at me. “Perhaps you should prepare for your advisory role, Major.”

He knew. He absolutely knew more than he was saying.

I boarded the lead rescue helicopter. Sutton had insisted on a security officer escort—a stone-faced lieutenant who looked at me like I was a bomb. As we lifted off, I saw Werner watching from the command center. His expression was… calculating.

We flew fast, maintaining the altitude separation. It worked. The interference didn’t touch us.

“Last transponder signal here,” the mission leader said, pointing to the mountainous terrain. “Descent vector suggests controlled landing. The UAs disengaged and vanished right after he hit the ground.”

“They got what they wanted,” I said. “A brand-new F-35 with the latest countermeasures package.”

“For what? Industrial espionage?”

“Something worse,” I said. “Deliberate testing of classified weapons on our own assets.”

“There,” the tactical officer said. “Thermal signature. Aircraft is warm. No movement.”

We circled. The F-35 was sitting in a small clearing. Intact. Landing gear down. No fire.

No sign of Blackwood.

“Setting down,” the pilot announced. “Secondary team on overwatch.”

As we descended, something felt wrong. The aircraft’s position. It was too… perfect. Placed in the only clearing for miles. Oriented for perfect visibility from the air.

“Wait,” I said, grabbing the mission leader’s arm. “Pull up. Pull up now! It’s bait. It’s a setup.”

As I said it, the thermal sensors lit up. “Movement! Tree line! Multiple hostiles, tactical positions! Ambush!”

The helicopter banked hard, lurching upward. As it did, I saw him.

Blackwood.

He was being pushed from the trees by a man in unmarked tactical gear, a weapon at his back.

“They’re using him as leverage,” I said, my stomach tightening.

“Setting up for tactical insertion,” the leader snapped. “Secondary team creates a diversion.”

But it was still wrong. The ambush was too staged. The timing…

“They’re not trying to ambush us,” I realized aloud. “They’re testing our response. They’re gathering intel on our rescue procedures.”

As the second helicopter created a diversion, gunfire erupted. Blackwood broke free, sprinting for cover.

“He’s making a break for it!” the leader yelled. “Setting down for immediate extraction!”

We descended fast. As we neared the ground, I saw it. That shimmer. The same heat distortion.

“PULL UP!” I screamed. “ELECTROMAGNETIC SIGNATURE!”

The pilot reacted instantly. The helicopter shot upward just as an invisible pulse washed over the landing zone.

Below, the tactical team from the other bird, already on the ground, faltered. Their comms went dead.

“They’re using the weapon on our ground teams,” I said, my voice shaking with rage. “Smaller scale. We have to withdraw!”

As we gained altitude, I kept my binoculars on the scene. The shimmer was spreading, creating a “dead zone” around the F-35, isolating our team.

And then I saw the vehicle. A standard military transport, approaching the clearing. The driver got out.

My blood ran colder than the vacuum of space.

“Major Sutton,” I whispered.

“What?” my escort demanded.

“The driver. It’s Major Diana Sutton.”

The mission leader snatched the binoculars, focused, and let out a string of curses. “What the hell is she doing here?”

“She’s not part of the rescue,” I said, the final piece clicking into place. “She’s part of this. She knew about the weapon. She tried to stop me from coming. She’s running the test.”

The implications were staggering. Military Intelligence was deploying weapons against its own.

“We need to report this to Mercer. Now,” the mission leader said.

The comms officer shook his head, his face grim. “Unable to comply, sir. We’re being jammed across all frequencies. We are completely isolated.”

The ride back to Kingsley was silent. Heavy. Sutton’s presence confirmed it. The conspiracy wasn’t just covered up by Intelligence; it was run by it.

And they knew I was alive. They knew I’d seen her. They would be coming for me.

As we landed, the base was on high alert. Extra security. And an unmarked transport aircraft on the far side of the field. Someone important had arrived.

Mercer was waiting for us, his face a mask of iron.

“Major,” he said, and the word was heavy. “We’ve confirmed your identity through archive biometric data. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“Thank you, sir. Though I’m not sure how long that status will last.”

“Which is why we’re implementing heightened security,” he said, guiding us to a vehicle. “The Joint Chiefs dispatched a representative. They arrived 20 minutes ago.”

“That was fast,” I said.

“Too fast,” Mercer agreed quietly.

We weren’t taken to the command center. We were taken to a secure “clean room.” No electronics. Analog maps.

A three-star general was waiting. “General Hargrove,” Mercer introduced. “This is Major Azriel Voss.”

“So I’m told,” Hargrove said, his voice like gravel. “The ‘Killed in Action’ Major Voss. Explain the discrepancy.”

I told him. I told him everything. The attack. The survival. The suspicion. The evidence. I ended with Sutton. “I saw her at the ambush site, sir. She was coordinating it.”

Hargrove’s expression was stone. “Those are charges of treason, Major. You have no credible evidence. Just a story.”

“General,” Mercer cut in, “we have corroboration that an unidentified weapon was used, and Major Sutton was observed at the site without authorization.”

“I’m aware of the reports,” Hargrove said. “Which is why I’m here. Major Voss, you are hereby remanded to military custody pending a full investigation of your activities.”

Of course. The cover-up. Isolate me. Bury me again, this time in a cell.

“Sir,” I said, “Commander Blackwood witnessed the same thing. He can confirm my report.”

“Commander Blackwood’s debrief will be handled separately.” Two military police officers entered the room. “Escort the Major to appropriate quarters.”

“General,” Mercer protested, “her knowledge is critical to our defense—”

“Your request is noted, Colonel,” Hargrove said, dismissing him. “But security protocols must be maintained.”

They were going to make me disappear.

The door opened.

Blackwood. Still in his flight suit, covered in dust and grime.

“Commander,” Hargrove said, a flicker of surprise. “We were informed your extraction was still in progress.”

“We found an alternative route, sir,” Blackwood said, his eyes locking on me, then the General. “We encountered a second helicopter from base security. Major Sutton was coordinating their movements.”

He was backing me up.

“Your report will be included in the investigation, Commander,” Hargrove said, unmoved. “For now, Major Voss is being detained.”

“Sir,” Blackwood said, his voice firm. “I feel compelled to report that the weapon system which disabled my aircraft matches exactly the description Major Voss provided before my mission. Furthermore, I confirmed Major Sutton’s presence at the ambush site, communicating with the unidentified hostiles who deployed that weapon.”

The room was silent. Hargrove’s jaw muscle twitched.

“I also recovered this,” Blackwood said. He pulled a small, scorched device from his flight suit. “It’s a control module for the weapon system.”

I recognized it.

“I’ll have our tech team analyze it,” Mercer said, reaching for it.

“That won’t be necessary,” Hargrove said, stepping in front of him. “This technology is sensitive. It will be secured and transported by my team.”

The standoff was electric. Hargrove was trying to seize the evidence.

“General,” I said, my voice sharp. “May I ask when you were informed of my reappearance?”

He turned to me. “The Joint Chiefs maintain appropriate oversight.”

“And yet you arrived within hours,” I pressed. “Before Commander Blackwood even returned with proof. That suggests remarkable efficiency… or prior knowledge.”

The accusation hung in the air. Mercer’s eyes narrowed, finally seeing the General for what he was.

“General,” Mercer said, “I believe we should continue this discussion…”

“That won’t be necessary, Colonel.”

Dr. Werner. He was standing in the doorway, flanked by two new officers in specialized intelligence insignia.

“Dr. Werner,” Hargrove snapped, “this is a secure facility.”

“On the contrary, General,” Werner said, holding up a secure tablet. “My presence has been requested by the Secretary of Defense. As of 0900 hours, I have been authorized to lead the investigation into what is now designated Operation Phantom Echo.”

Mercer read the authorization. “This gives you full access to all materials related to Operation Cerberus.”

“Correct,” Werner said. “Major Voss’s allegations have triggered protocols for this exact contingency.”

“What contingency?” Hargrove demanded.

“The possibility,” Werner said, his eyes cold, “that elements within our own defense structure might utilize classified technology against American personnel.”

“Dr. Werner,” I cut in, still unsure of him. “Your involvement in weapons integration on this base is a conflict of interest.”

Werner smiled, a thin, cold smile. “A valid concern, Major. Which is why my true role has remained compartmentalized. Colonel, I’ve been embedded here for three weeks as part of a counter-intelligence operation. My cover as a contractor was to investigate potential misuse of this exact technology.”

My head was spinning.

“And Major Voss,” Werner said, turning to me. “Your survival and subsequent investigation have been monitored by select counter-intelligence personnel since your recovery was confirmed… 18 months ago.”

The floor dropped out from under me.

“You… you knew?” I whispered, the betrayal stinging more than the crash. “You knew I was alive for 18 months?”

“Yes, Major,” he said. “We maintained distance to avoid compromising your investigation. Your unauthorized probe moved through channels our official inquiries couldn’t penetrate. We needed to identify the command structure. We needed to see who you would flush out.”

I was bait. Again.

“This is preposterous,” Hargrove blustered. “I am assuming command of this investigation under emergency directive 47-Alpha!”

“Sir,” Blackwood said, his voice cutting through the tension. “The tactical team completed analysis of the comms equipment from the ambush site.”

“And?” Mercer prompted.

“They’ve identified the encryption signature. It matches a secure channel assigned to General Hargrove’s command staff, sir.”

Checkmate.

The room went dead silent.

“Impossible,” Hargrove whispered.

“We have your encrypted communications coordinating an attack on an American pilot,” I said, stepping toward him. “We have flight recorder data confirming the same weapon that killed my squadron. And we have your intel officer, Major Sutton, at the ambush site.”

Werner nodded to the MPs. “General Hargrove, in light of this evidence, I am officially including you as a subject in the investigation. You will be remanded to custody.”

Hargrove looked at me, his eyes filled with a cold, pure hatred. “National security requires sacrifices,” he hissed.

“National security is never served by betraying the personnel who defend it,” Werner replied. “Major Voss’s squadron deserved better than to be sacrificed as test subjects for a weapon you intended to sell to the highest bidder.”

Profit. That was the why. Not strategy. Not security. Profit. My pilots had died for a sales demonstration.

The MPs took Hargrove away.

I stood there, shaking. The adrenaline that had kept me going for three years was gone, leaving a hollow, aching void.

“Major,” Werner said, “the Secretary has authorized me to offer you formal reinstatement. Full rank and privileges.”

“The charges?”

“Waived. Your actions served the greater purpose of national security.”

Colonel Mercer stepped forward. “Major Voss, your squadron deserved better. But your persistence has ensured their sacrifice won’t be repeated. I would be honored to have you reinstated under my command.”

I looked at Blackwood. He was watching me, a look of profound respect in his eyes. He’d flown into the trap. He’d seen the monster. And he’d come back.

“Major Sutton has been apprehended,” a comms officer reported from the door.

It was over. The hunt was over.

“How does it feel?” Blackwood asked me quietly, later, as we stood outside the facility. “To finally have the truth acknowledged.”

“Surreal,” I admitted. “I’m not sure who I am beyond this mission.”

“You could fly again,” he suggested.

I looked at my hands. The hands of a tech. The hands of a pilot.

The base auditorium was packed. Mercer had called a full briefing. He stood at the podium and laid it all out. The attack. The conspiracy. The arrest of a three-star general.

And then he told them about me.

“One pilot survived that attack,” he said. “Major Azriel Voss. For three years, she has conducted an essential investigation. Today, that investigation bore fruit.”

He turned to me. “Major Voss, would you address the personnel?”

I walked to the podium. Hundreds of faces. The same faces that had looked through Specialist Vincent for six months. Now, they saw me.

“For the past six months,” I said, my voice steady, “I served alongside you as Specialist Vincent. That identity was a lie. A lie necessary to uncover a truth. My squadron deserved better. They deserve to have their story told honestly.”

When I finished, there was silence. Then, one person clapped. Then another. Then the entire auditorium was on its feet, the applause echoing off the walls, a sound of thunder that washed over me.

Blackwood stepped up to me. In front of everyone, he unpinned his own pilot wings from his chest.

He held them out to me. “These belong to you more than me, Major. Not as a replacement for what was taken. As an acknowledgment of what remains.”

I took them. The familiar, solid weight in my palm. A piece of my soul, returned.

Later, as night fell, I stood at the edge of the airfield. The ghost of Azie Vincent was gone. Major Azriel Voss was back.

My radio, clipped to my new uniform, crackled. Just static. Then a voice, clear and sharp, cutting through the hiss. A voice I hadn’t heard in three years.

“Raptor 6. Mission complete.”

I stilled. It was impossible. A phantom transmission. A ghost in the machine.

But I knew that voice.

I looked up at the stars, the pilot wings heavy and real in my pocket.

The mission was over. The truth was out.

And for the first time in three years, I wasn’t a ghost. I was a Major in the United States Air Force. And I was alive.