He fell to his knees right there in the aisle. He didn’t care about the passengers watching. He didn’t care about his dignity. He looked at my faded jacket, then at the watch on my wrist. He looked up at me, tears forming in his eyes, and whispered…

“General… I didn’t know it was you.”

I nod once at Captain Miller, who is now trembling, still on his knees. I don’t speak yet. The silence is louder than any words I could say. The passengers behind me don’t know what to think—half of them are recording with their phones, others are praying, and a few just sit frozen, staring.

The red LED on my wrist stops blinking. It turns solid green.

Outside, the Raptor stays close, its shadow slipping over the windows like a hunter circling prey. The jet’s voice cuts in again, clinical and urgent.

“Flight 404, your flight path is being overridden. Do not deviate. Do not respond. Await further instructions.”

The plane jerks slightly as autopilot disengages. I hear the engines shift in tone. We’re no longer flying to Chicago. We’re going where the Department of Defense tells us to.

I finally speak, not to Miller, but to the intercom panel beside him. I press the button.

“This is General Alan Rhodes, authorization Zulu-Tango-Seven. Commence Code Granite. Confirm visual on package retrieval at gridpoint Sierra-4-Niner. Civilian manifest secure.”

There’s a pause. Then the voice returns, this time sharper, but laced with reverence.

“General Rhodes, confirmed. Sierra-4-Niner ETA ten minutes. Standby for skyhook deployment. Godspeed, sir.”

Skyhook.

Somewhere behind me, a guy in a hoodie whispers, “What the hell is a skyhook?”

He’s about to find out.

Captain Miller rises slowly, still shaking. “General Rhodes… we didn’t… we didn’t know you were aboard. Why didn’t anyone tell us?”

I fix him with a look that stops his words cold. “Because you didn’t need to know. And you never will again.”

He nods quickly and retreats into the cockpit like a scolded child.

Tiffany, still clutching a tray, stares at me with open disgust, her hands trembling. “So… what, you’re some kind of… military guy? Like, with a code name?”

I look at her. “I’m the code.”

I walk down the aisle, slow and steady. As I pass the rows of passengers, silence follows me. The man in the suit refuses to meet my eyes. The frat boys stare like I’m a ghost. A little girl with a unicorn plushy holds her mom’s hand tighter as I walk by.

She whispers, “Is he a superhero?”

Her mother doesn’t answer.

I reach the rear galley. There’s a hidden panel behind the supply compartment. I flip it open, revealing a small screen. It scans my watch, then my retina. A green light flashes, and the wall creaks open slightly, revealing a long black case. Inside: a harness, black gloves, tactical gear so advanced most special ops teams haven’t even seen the prototypes.

I gear up fast.

Ten minutes. That’s all I have.

The woman in seat 22B stands. “Wait! What’s happening? Are we in danger?”

I don’t answer her. I check the straps. Tight. Secure. Then I twist the latch on the emergency exit. The plane’s pressure systems scream a warning, but I override them with a code on my watch.

The Raptor outside peels away slightly, giving me space.

The man in the suit yells, “Are you opening the door? Are you insane?!”

He has no idea.

The exit blasts open. Wind howls through the cabin. Oxygen masks drop. Screams erupt. But I’m already latched into the magnetic tether from the skyhook cable now lowering from above. It dangles from a stealth chopper riding just above cloud cover.

This operation isn’t new to me. I’ve done it twenty-seven times. But never with so many eyes watching.

The hook latches to the frame behind me. I give one final glance at the passengers—at their shocked faces, their fear, their awe.

Then I’m gone.

Lifted clean out of the aircraft, snatched into the heavens like an avenging angel.

The chopper interior is dimly lit, filled with the hum of classified tech and tension. Two men in black combat armor greet me. Their faces are hidden behind helmets, but their posture tells me they know who I am.

“Package retrieval in progress, General,” one says. “ETA to Command: eleven minutes.”

I nod. “What about the plane?”

“Diverting to secure airstrip. FAA’s been looped out. No one will talk. Not after what just happened.”

Good.

I pull off the harness and sit across from the cargo crate bolted to the center of the cabin. It’s small, the size of a briefcase, but lead-lined and reinforced with an ID lock.

“You sure it’s in there?” I ask.

The soldier nods. “Satellite trace matches. It was smuggled onboard via diplomatic courier, but flagged once your watch pinged proximity.”

I stare at the case.

Inside is something the world can’t afford to lose. Or worse—have fall into the wrong hands.

The serum. The real one. Not the watered-down decoys sold to desperate billionaires. Not the myth whispered in dark rooms.

The real Genesis Protocol.

I exhale slowly. I’ve guarded this secret for twelve years. Buried it under lies, missions, cover identities. The last time it was seen in the wild, it killed four cities in under an hour.

I reach for the case, scan my wrist. The lock beeps and disengages. A soft hiss as the seal breaks. I don’t open it—just verify the integrity lights on the inside.

Green.

Then something clicks.

Not in the case. In my mind.

“We’re not alone,” I say.

The two soldiers freeze.

I pull out my sidearm. “Pilot, confirm identity.”

Silence.

“Pilot,” I repeat. “Call and respond. Code Raven.”

Nothing.

I stand. The two soldiers rise with me. We all feel it—the slight drift in our flight path. The subtle rise in engine strain.

We rush the cockpit.

What we see stops all of us cold.

The cockpit is empty.

The controls are moving—but there’s no one at the helm.

No pilot. No co-pilot.

Only a small device strapped to the instrument panel. Flashing red.

“Oh no,” I mutter. “It’s a ghost flight.”

Too late. The device emits a pulse. The lights go out. The engines stutter. And then—

Boom.

The explosion is sharp, localized, but powerful enough to rip the tail rotor off. The chopper tilts. Alarms scream. We spiral.

I grab the case, hook it to my chest, and yell, “Deploy chute now!”

One soldier pulls the emergency lever. The floor drops open. Wind screams in. One by one, we dive out.

I’m the last.

As I plummet through the sky, I count seconds. Three… five… eight… and yank.

The chute deploys with a bone-snapping jerk.

I drift, spiraling through cloud and chaos, the wreckage of the chopper falling past me in burning chunks.

Below me, a black SUV is racing across the desert, kicking up dust. A private landing strip.

Good. They’re here.

The SUV skids to a stop as I touch down. I hit the ground hard but roll with it. The back door opens before I can even stand.

Inside: Director Monroe. CIA. My old handler. White hair, steel eyes, always chewing the same damn peppermint gum.

“Get in,” she says.

I do.

She eyes the case clipped to my chest. “Is that it?”

I nod. “And they knew I had it.”

Her lips tighten. “We’ve got a breach.”

I already know that.

“They tried to hijack a DoD flight. Took over a stealth chopper. Knew my path. My watch ID.”

Monroe doesn’t speak. She just taps the screen in front of her. A map appears. Red dots bloom across the U.S.—military bases, labs, consulates.

“All of them accessed in the last three hours. Simultaneously.”

I feel a cold knot form in my stomach.

“This isn’t a leak,” I say. “It’s a takeover.”

Monroe finally looks me in the eyes. “And you’re the only one with the clearance to stop it.”

We drive.

The wind rips across the desert. The sun sinks low.

And somewhere behind us, Flight 404 touches down quietly at a base that officially doesn’t exist. No one aboard will remember what happened—not after the sedation gas filters in. They’ll wake up groggy, confused, convinced the turbulence was just a bad dream.

But not me.

I remember everything.

I always do.

Because I’m not just a general.

I’m the last failsafe. The reason the world still turns.

And now?

Now, the real war begins.