Seven thousand eight hundred.
Ocean below.
Ethan’s F-16 abruptly broke formation.
Two hostile aircraft followed.
Then the clouds above erupted with lights.
Six more fighters descended from higher altitude.
White falcons painted beneath their canopies.
Maya’s old squadron.
Her breath caught.
Ethan said:
“Falcon flight, execute.”
The sky transformed.
Aircraft split in different directions.
Radar filled with movement.
Radio frequencies exploded with disciplined voices.
“Falcon Three engaged.”
“Falcon Four crossing.”
“Falcon Six, visual.”
The hostile aircraft were suddenly surrounded.
Not @tt/@cked.
Contained.
Forced away from Flight 417.
Holt stared.
“You rebuilt the squadron.”
“No,” Maya whispered.
She finally understood.
“He never left it.”
Ethan answered over the radio.
“I left the records.”
One hostile aircraft disappeared into the clouds.
Another broke west.
The others followed.
Within ninety seconds, the sky cleared.
But Flight 417 continued falling.
Six thousand feet.
Torres shouted from the cockpit.
“We still don’t have control!”
