My blood ran cold. The enemy wasn’t jamming me. Someone was hailing me directly through a backchannel code that hadn’t been used in twenty years. I looked at the text scrolling across my visor, and I froze in mid-air. It wasn’t a threat. It was a name. I took my finger off the trigger, staring at the screen in disbelief, because the message said “DAVID ‘REAPER’ SLOAN – MIA 2005 – EYES ON YOU.”

My fingers go numb. My breath catches in my throat. David Sloan. My father’s co-pilot. Presumed dead. Vanished during a black-ops mission in Kandahar the same year my dad crashed and burned in a classified op that no one in command ever wanted to talk about. They called it a training error. My father’s name was buried with dishonor.

But I knew better. I always did.

“Grease One, respond!” the Colonel barks through my headset. “You have targets. Engage!”

But I don’t press the trigger. I can’t. My HUD’s frozen, overridden, the message now replaced by a GPS coordinate — one that’s deep behind enemy lines. My mind’s spinning.

Is Reaper alive? Is this some kind of trap?

A rocket slams into the sand just twenty yards to my left. The Apache rocks, sirens scream in my ears. I slam the cyclic forward, nose-diving away from the barrage, chaff flaring behind me. The mortars below keep hammering the base. I twist around. I’ve got one shot to save them — and another to chase a ghost.

“Colonel,” I say into the mic, “I can’t engage. Something’s overriding my system. I’m bugging out south to identify the breach.”

“You do that, Sergeant, and I’ll have you court-martialed before dinner!”

“If we’re alive by then, sir,” I snap, and cut the line.

I bank hard toward the coordinate flashing in red on my screen. The bird groans but holds. I push the Apache into full throttle. Trees blur below me. Sandstorms kick up. My fingers tremble on the stick.

Thirty miles out, my comms go completely dead. No static. Just silence. I’ve entered a black zone.

The GPS marker flashes again — this time tagged with: “EXFIL WINDOW – T MINUS 8 MINUTES.”

I drop altitude, hugging the terrain. Ahead, nestled in a dry ravine, is a camouflaged structure. Not enemy, not friendly — something older. A relic from another war. Abandoned, yet powered. I see the shimmer of a landing signal and a heat signature that doesn’t match any known Allied code.

I hover above it, guns armed but fingers off the trigger.

“Grease One,” a voice crackles through an encrypted private channel. It’s not my radio.

It’s a voice I know only from one bootleg tape my dad used to play. It’s Reaper. Older, slower… but it’s him.

“You’re Krista.”

I don’t speak. Can’t speak. My hand hovers over the throttle.

“I flew with your father. He didn’t crash. He was shot down by our own. You’re flying the bird he rebuilt in secret.”

“What is this?” I finally whisper. “Who the hell are you?”

“You already know. Now land. We’ve got five minutes before this place is scorched earth.”

I should turn around. I should call for backup. But I lower the Apache.

The minute I hit the ground, the hatch to the bunker slides open, and out steps a man with a metal leg and haunted eyes. Reaper.

He walks toward me with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a tablet in hand. “Proof,” he says before I can speak. “Every mission file. Every sabotage order. Everything they buried.”

“Why now?” I ask, stepping down, rotor blades thundering above us.

“Because they’re about to do it again,” he says. “And this time, it won’t just be a handful of soldiers lost — it’ll be the entire eastern command.”

I glance at the tablet. Classified files flash by, names of officers I recognize, locations I know. This is real. This is treason.

“You need to get this out,” he says. “Take it to Forward Command Echo. You’ll be intercepted if you go straight to the base.”

“Why not go yourself?”

“They’d shoot me before I made it five feet in uniform.”

A thud in the distance cuts us off. I scan the ridge. Two hostile drones crest over the hill.

“No more time,” Reaper says, shoving the tablet into my vest. “Go. Now.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“You have to. I’m not the asset. That data is.”

I hesitate, just for a second — and that’s when the first drone fires.

The bunker explodes. The shockwave sends me crashing against the Apache. Ears ringing, I scramble back into the cockpit, fingers flying across the controls.

“Come on, baby, come on…” I mutter, coaxing her to life.

She roars awake.

I lift off under fire, tracers slicing the sky. I spin the nose and unleash a Hellfire missile. One drone erupts in flames. The other peels away but loops back. I gun it.

“I hope you’re watching, Dad,” I say under my breath, gripping the cyclic tighter than I ever have.

The last drone dives. I time it — one, two — flare high, spin, and fire.

Direct hit.

I level off, breath heaving, sweat pouring down my back. I open the encrypted channel again.

“Reaper, do you copy?”

Silence.

“Reaper?”

Nothing.

The signal dies.

But the tablet is still warm against my chest. Still humming. Still alive.

I pull north, flying low and fast toward Forward Command Echo. My HUD flashes with alerts — incoming aircraft, unrecognized friend-or-foe pings. I twist and turn through canyons, dodging radar, flares firing behind me like tail feathers on fire.

I don’t sleep. I don’t blink. I don’t breathe.

An hour later, the gates of Echo rise like salvation from the sand. I transmit my emergency code.

“Identify,” a voice demands.

“Grease One. Sergeant Krista Morrow. I have Priority Intel from Deep Black Ops. Hostiles in pursuit. Clear me for landing!”

Seconds tick by like hours.

“Cleared. Bay Twelve.”

I don’t wait for full landing protocol. I drop the Apache like a stone into the bay and kill the engine mid-spin. Techs scramble around me. Medics yell.

I jump down and sprint toward Command.

The MPs raise their rifles. “Halt!”

“Hand this to General Armand!” I scream, tossing the tablet to a major sprinting up the corridor. “Now! Or we all die in twelve hours!”

Chaos erupts. The tablet is rushed to the secure room. I’m dragged into debrief. Blood pressure through the roof. Shaking. Talking too fast. But then—silence.

In the war room, every face is pale.

The files show it all. A planned friendly-fire operation designed to wipe a sector and hide a secret supply deal with a rogue arms syndicate. Greed at the top. Bodies at the bottom.

It’s not just about my dad anymore. It’s about everyone who ever trusted the wrong orders.

“Where did you get this?” the General asks, eyes locked on mine.

“From a ghost,” I reply.

And then, as if summoned, the radio crackles.

“This is Echo Command. We’ve got a new contact approaching from the south. Civilian transport. Broadcasting a retired military ID… David Sloan.”

I bolt to the observation deck.

Below, stepping out of a scorched, stolen desert truck, is Reaper. Limping, alive.

The General steps beside me. “Looks like you were right.”

“No,” I say, watching the man help a wounded civilian out of the back of the truck. “I just flew like I believed it.”

Within the hour, arrests are made. Orders revoked. The strike is called off. Lives are saved. Files duplicated and handed to a dozen allied watchdogs. No more hiding.

That night, I sit under the stars, the Apache cooling beside me, and I finally let the tears fall.

For my father. For the truth. For the silence that ended the moment I said, “I can fly it.”

Reaper walks over with two beers. Hands me one. “You broke every rule today.”

“I had good training.”

“You still have his photo in the cockpit?”

I nod.

Reaper raises his bottle. “Then let’s drink to the pilot who taught a mechanic how to save the world.”

I smile.

And for the first time in years, the sky doesn’t feel so heavy.