Chapter 2 - The Voice That Knew My Name|
For three terrible seconds, nobody in the Silverwood Aero Club lounge made a sound.
Not Carter Hayes, who was still struggling to climb out of the shattered coffee table.
Not Grant Whitmore, the billionaire who had spent the last three years making my life miserable.
Not the six wealthy men who had laughed when Grant told them I had failed military training because I wasn't tough enough to survive.
Every eye was fixed on me.
But my eyes were fixed on the glowing radar display.
Ghost Two-Four was descending toward a mountain that had already killed better pilots than the men drinking bourbon behind me.
"Ghost Two-Four, acknowledge my transmission!" I shouted.
Static exploded through the speakers.
Then a voice returned.
"Say again, ground station!"
"Stop fighting the downdraft!" I ordered.
"Your aircraft is losing energy faster than you're gaining altitude, and that mountain doesn't care what the controller's screen says!"
The Denver Center controller immediately broke in.
"Unidentified ground station, identify yourself and cease unauthorized transmissions!"
I ignored him for another heartbeat.
"Ghost Two-Four, you've got a narrow valley opening east of your position, and you're approaching the terrain boundary!"
"How do you know that?" the pilot demanded.
"Because I've flown through that valley in weather that made grown men pray!"
There was another burst of static.
Then the pilot said something that made my fingers go numb.
"Beacon?"
My heart stopped.
The microphone nearly slipped from my hand.
Nobody had called me that in seven years.
Nobody outside a handful of surviving military aviators even knew the name.
"Beacon, is that you?"
I recognized his voice now.
Not the panicked breathing or the hoarseness caused by oxygen deprivation and exhaustion.
I recognized the way he shortened his words under pressure.
The way he kept his fear locked behind his teeth.
And the way he had once shouted my name through a sky full of burning metal.
"Rook?" I whispered.
The radio crackled.
"Sweet Jesus," the pilot breathed.
"Jessica Ward?"
Behind me, Grant gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
"Jessica Ward?"
He repeated my name as though it were a ridiculous joke.
"Now the mechanic has imaginary military friends."
But the pilot had already heard him.
"Whoever is talking in the background, shut your mouth!"
The force of his command rattled the speakers.
"This is Major Aaron Mercer, United States Air Force, and the woman on that radio saved my life over Syria!"
The lounge went completely silent.
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat.
Aaron Mercer had been my wingman.
His call sign was Rook.
The last time I had seen him, I was lying on a military hospital bed with bandages covering half my body.
He had stood outside my room for almost an hour.
I had watched his shadow through the glass.
But I had never opened the door.
"Rook, listen to me," I said, forcing my attention back to the present.
"We can have our reunion after you put that aircraft on the ground."
"Copy that, Beacon."
His answer was immediate.
Just like the old days.
I leaned toward the radar display, comparing the moving target with the terrain chart mounted beside the console.
The club had purchased the chart as a decorative conversation piece.
Its wealthy members liked pointing at mountains and discussing flights they had never actually made.
I had spent three winters studying those same mountains while repairing aircraft that shouldn't have been flown.
I knew which valleys collected ice.
I knew where sudden crosswinds rolled down the slopes.
And I knew that the storm outside was pushing Aaron toward an invisible wall of granite.
"Denver Center, this is Jessica Ward at Silverwood Regional," I transmitted.
"Former Air Force Strike Eagle pilot, presently on the ground at the airport."
The controller hesitated.
"Ms. Ward, can you confirm your identity?"
"Coordinate through the airport emergency operations desk," I answered.
"And please keep your terrain warnings coming while we work this together."
A different voice entered the frequency.
"Denver Center emergency supervisor here."
"We have the aircraft on secondary tracking, but coverage is intermittent."
"Ghost Two-Four, declare intentions."
Aaron's breathing was ragged.
"My primary displays are gone, my navigation solution is unreliable, and the engine indications are inconsistent."
"I'm using what standby references I have."
"I need somewhere to land."
I looked toward the enormous windows overlooking Silverwood Regional's runway.
The airport had once served as a military diversion field.
Its unusually long strip was one of the reasons the billionaires loved keeping their expensive jets there.
But the runway was buried under blowing snow.
And the wind was getting worse.
"Silverwood has eight thousand six hundred feet of pavement," I said.
"Emergency crews can prepare it, but we need an immediate runway condition report."
The controller acknowledged and began coordinating with airport operations.
Aaron exhaled sharply.
"Beacon, you remember what you told me the night we lost the second escort over Aleppo?"
My throat tightened.
I remembered every word.
I had been flying through black smoke.
Warning lights had filled my cockpit.
And a young pilot had been crying over the radio because he couldn't find his way home.
"I told you that fear was allowed," I answered.
"But quitting wasn't."
Aaron gave a broken laugh.
"Still the same woman."
"No," I said quietly.
"I'm not."
For a moment, the room disappeared.
I saw the flames again.
The shattered canopy.
The blood spreading across my weapons officer's flight suit.
I heard the sound I had spent seven years trying to forget.
A man screaming my name as our aircraft fell.
Then Aaron's voice dragged me back.
"Beacon, my altitude's coming down again!"
I straightened.
"Stay with the controllers, Rook."
"Tell me what your standby instruments are giving you."
He read back the information.
I compared it with the ground tracking and the last known terrain corridor.
We worked with the controller to keep him clear of the highest ground while arranging the airport approach.
He was still flying the jet.
I was only giving him information he couldn't see.
But sometimes information was the difference between a pilot reaching home and a family receiving a folded flag.
Behind me, someone cleared his throat.
Grant stepped closer.
His expression had shifted from amusement to irritation.
"Jessica, enough of this theater."
I didn't look at him.
"Get away from the radio."
"You think I'm going to let a part-time mechanic put my entire airport at risk?"
His words barely registered.
Then the controller spoke again.
"Silverwood operations reports emergency crews responding."
"Stand by for confirmation of runway lighting and surface conditions."
I turned toward the windows.
The runway should have been glowing with white edge lights.
Its approach lighting system should have been visible through the storm.
Instead, outside the lounge, there was nothing but darkness.
I grabbed the desk telephone and called the maintenance building.
Lena Ortiz answered on the second ring.
"Jess, something's wrong."
My stomach dropped.
"What kind of wrong?"
"The emergency runway lighting generator isn't responding."
"Did the breaker trip?"
"No."
Her voice trembled.
"Someone disconnected the main control cable."
I stared into the blackness beyond the glass.
Behind me, Grant's expensive watch clicked against his whiskey tumbler.
And for the first time that night, I understood something far more frightening than a mechanical failure.
The storm wasn't the only thing trying to kill Aaron Mercer.
May you like
Someone on the ground wanted that runway dark.
And Ghost Two-Four was already coming down.
