Suddenly, a shadow fell over the wing.
Two dark grey, angular shapes rose from the white abyss below. F-22 Raptors. They were so close I could see the rivets on their fuselages and the pilot’s helmet in the cockpit of the lead jet. They weren’t just flying nearby; they were intercepting.
The cabin erupted. People screamed. Cell phones were pressed against the glass.
“Oh my God!” a woman shrieked from row 10. “Are we being hijacked? Why are they so close?”
The man in 12B went pale, his laptop sliding off his lap. “Is this a terrorist attack? Why aren’t we landing?” He looked at me, his arrogance replaced by a pathetic, shivering terror. “Hey! You look like you know things! What is happening?”
I didn’t look at him. I looked at the lead Raptor. The pilot performed a slow, graceful wing-dip—a salute.
The intercom crackled again, but it wasn’t the usual automated tone. The Captain’s voice was thick with an emotion that silenced the entire cabin.
“Iron Fist, this is Falcon One,” the Captain said, his voice echoing through the speakers like a gavel. “We were told you were on this flight. The men of the 7th Ghost Battalion heard you were heading into the sunset, and we couldn’t let you cross the line without a proper escort.”
The whole plane went dead silent. 12B stared at me, his mouth hanging open.
“Commander Elias Thorne,” the Captain continued. “Iron Fist. You saved our lives in the Red Zone ten years ago. You’re the reason most of the pilots in this formation are still breathing. On behalf of the Department of Defense and every man who ever wore the silver hawk… welcome home, sir. The sky is yours.”
