PART 2
“Echo Base, this is Cargo 72,” I said, keeping my voice flat because panic wastes oxygen. “We are under attack. Multiple enemy fighters inbound. Number one engine hit. Request immediate support.”
Static answered.
Not normal static.
Jamming.
Of course they jammed us.
Professional, rude, and deeply inconvenient.
Rodriguez came over the intercom again.
“Captain, how many?”
I checked the display.
Ten.
Some numbers are too ugly to hand to a man before breakfast.
“More than one,” I said.
“That is the kind of vague statement that gets people killed, ma’am.”
“Ten.”
Silence.
Then he laughed once, sharp and humorless.
“Fantastic. Ten stealth fighters against a cargo plane. Somebody upstairs has a sick sense of humor.”
The first fighter slid into position off our rear quarter, closing fast.
He wanted a gun kill.
That told me everything I needed to know about him.
Cocky.
Close enough to see us die.
Maybe close enough to enjoy it.
He probably thought I would fly straight.
Maybe dip the nose.
Maybe throw the plane around like a scared bus driver on black ice.
He didn’t know me.
To be fair, neither did most of my own squadron.
For six years, I had let them think I was just a transport pilot.
Cargo routes.
Weather reports.
Fuel calculations.
Boring crew briefings in rooms that smelled like burnt coffee and printer toner.
The younger pilots called us truck drivers with wings.
Sometimes to our faces.
I never corrected them.
It was easier that way.
Nobody in the 37th Airlift Squadron needed to know I had spent four years in the F-22 Raptor program.
Nobody needed to know I had more than six hundred hours in an aircraft that could climb like a bullet and vanish from radar like a bad decision.
May you like
Nobody needed to know my old call sign was classified.
Then the enemy fighter behind me fired.
