Vance wasn’t just a contractor; he was a liability. He closed the lid and retreated toward first class, unaware that the black phone in my pocket had already initiated a silent handshake with his device, mirroring every packet he was trying to send.
The cockpit door opened. Captain Rowan, a veteran with silver at his temples, marched down the aisle. He ignored my father’s attempts to grab his sleeve. He ignored Chloe’s demands for a refund. He walked straight to row 34, stopped, and snapped to attention.
The salute was crisp, a perfect ninety-degree angle.
“General Bennett, ma’am. I am so sorry for the intrusion. Honolulu Center has flagged a navigation fault. We’ve been ordered to divert, but base ops requires a senior command override for restricted airspace entry.”
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the sound of a dozen Bennett egos shattering at once.
I stood up, peeling off my coffee-stained jacket to reveal the olive-drab t-shirt underneath. I didn’t look at Chloe, who was gripping the headrest of her seat as if the plane were falling out of the sky. I looked at the Captain.
“You’re clearing for Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, Captain?”
“Yes, ma’am. But I need your authorization code to enter the corridor.”
I pulled out the matte-black phone and entered a twenty-digit sequence. “Clearance Delta-Seven is active. Transmit to Hickam Command. Tell them Eagle One is coming in hot, and I want a security detail on the tarmac for a Tier-1 extraction.”
“Yes, General.”
